


A Spark of Black

by cmcross



Category: Supernatural
Genre: D/s themes, Forbidden Love, Implied Torture, M/M, Mooseley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-04 23:07:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cmcross/pseuds/cmcross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is not a love story.</p>
<p>Demons can’t love, you see. That’s what makes them demons. Their very essence is comprised of the darkness in humanity. Greed is their bread, Envy their butter, and Crowley has been feasting at the table of Deadly Sins for a very long time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Spark of Black

**Author's Note:**

  * For [herbailiwick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/herbailiwick/gifts).



This is not a love story.

Demons can’t love, you see. That’s what makes them demons. Their very essence is comprised of the darkness in humanity; the vile thoughts and sickening urges that slither up the spine to roost in human minds. Greed is their bread, Envy their butter, and Crowley has been feasting at the table of Deadly Sins for a very long time; has built his throne with discarded bones picked clean of all things bright and good in the world.

He is King of Hell and he is _made_ of sin.

He is sure the youngest Winchester knows this, even as he allows himself to be wheedled and cajoled into Crowley’s bed where they partake in some of life’s more pleasurable crimes against God.

The pursuit of carnal pleasure is an easy way to interpret Lust, but it is not the be all and end all of that which his strange bedfellow desires. It is lust for power, for control and dominance, which breaks that stubborn Winchester pride – “That’s quite a repertoire you’re building.” – and sends them careening down a path to which there is no foreseeable end.

Sam craves power with a dark and fierce desire that sets Crowley’s blood afire and makes him indulge every twisted fantasy the boy brings to his door. His vessel suffers bites and claw marks, stab wounds and mottled bruising, the soul inside screaming as his body is broken and remade, only to be broken again, all so that Crowley can glimpse that spark of black inside hazel eyes.

He will pretend not to feel a painful lurch in his chest when the phone inevitably rings - “Where the hell are you, man? We’ve got work to do.” – or the swelling of Greed inside himself crying out _mine mine mine_ as he watches Sam roll out of bed to heed his brothers call.

He will not beg for the boy to stay like some scullery maid who thinks the master of the house cares for more than the hot wet hole between her legs.

“Well I had fun,” he will say instead, pouring himself a drink as he watched his paramour dress, and suddenly Sam will be bashful again, blushing and wondering what to say. “I’m not some chav you picked up in a bar, Moose,” he will assure him. “You don’t have to ply me with pretty words.”

Sam will laugh and smile and press a bruising kiss to Crowley’s mouth – “I lo- I’ll be seeing you.” – and with that he will be gone.

He ignores the hollowness in his chest, the emptiness, the _less than_ that plagues him for days and days, making him twitch and shiver like a junkie in need of a fix.

One more spark. One more taste of hell damned humanity. One more touch of almost-love.

But this is not a love story, for Sam will never be as dark as his brother fears, nor as Crowley desires, and there can be no future for their tryst that does not end in blood and tears.

But sometimes he wishes that there were.


End file.
